A Place Where All Is
by milkweedflutter
Summary: Christy and Neil have lively banter, and her relationship with David improves daily. However, as she walks through her second spring in Cutter Gap, she comes to realize that there's only one place where she can be herself. . . and find her heart in the process.
1. Chapter 1 - A Moral Dilemma

_While I am no writer and could never do Catherine Marshall's book justice, I love this TV series and book enough to try._

 _Please review and follow, I'd like to hear your feedback._

 _This is set sometime before David's proposal, which this story will include. And happily so (for me), I am writing this story as if Margaret has passed away, like the novel. I never liked resurrecting Margaret from the dead; I think it was a cheap plot device. Everything else follows similarly to the TV series during the second season._

 _Disclaimer: Catherine Marshall's Christy is the property of the Marshall-LeSourd family. I am in no way seeking credit or profit for her story; this work of fanfiction is for amusement only. All references to Scripture, songs, books, etc. belong to their respective owners._

* * *

 **Chapter 1 - A Moral Dilemma**

 ** _Spring, 1913_**

Candlelight flickered across Christy Rudd Huddleston's youthful face as she swept the straw broom across the rough wooden floor of the church. Sometimes, in the stillness of the night, she heard Tennessee bullfrogs bellow their chests to her favorite song, _Near to the Heart of God_. For that was the very song that led her from Asheville, North Carolina, to Cutter Gap, Tennessee all those months ago. And was she ever nearer to the heart of God. Christy felt nearer to Him this past year than she had in her formative years combined.

Her heart swelled in reverence for God's timely provision. He had answered her cry for purpose during a dark season of her life. And if He'd never spoke to her again, she knew He cared, existed, and gave her an example to walk by—Jesus.

Christy lifted her sweetly tone deaf voice up to the rafters and swept to the beat of her song:

"There is a place of full release,

Near to the heart of God;

A place where all is joy and peace,

Near to the heart of God."

Cutter Gap. . . an unsuspecting place for Christy to find joy, peace, and full release. Joy in the children and her abiding walk with God, and peace with her long-term calling to minister to her highlanders. Now if only she'd have peace with one highlander in particular: Dr. Neil MacNeill.

She blew a wisp of hair out of her face. That man taunted her like. . . like. . . she couldn't think of an apt response. He completely exasperated her. She banged her hip into one of the student's desks and bowled over in pain. _That's what I get for arguing with a bull-headed man like Neil MacNeill. Pain._

Yet, she had to admit, after their frays she never felt more alive or invigorated. He challenged her, tested her mettle, and while she often left feeling like a child, he made her feel like her voice mattered.

"Do I hear singing, Miss Huddleston?" The doctor's familiar brogue lit her ears and warmed her stomach. A warm blush scattered across her face like Ruby Mae's orange freckles. "I am not familiar with that song." He laid his saddlebag across a bench and walked to her purposefully, his riding boots rhythmically sending a hollowed noise underneath the wooden planks.

"Dr. MacNeill, what are you doing out here so late? It has to be past nine o'clock. Soon you won't be able to find your way home." She leveraged the broomstick between her and the doctor lest he see her deep blush.

"I could ask you the same thing," he remarked, the candlelight catching a teasing glimmer in his eyes. "I've got a bunk set at Grantland's cabin tonight. I saw candlelight through the window and thought you'd be out here." He ran a hand through his sandy-red hair, setting his curls off like the fireworks in her stomach.

He cleared his throat. "Look, I wanted to talk about our conversation a few days ago in private. . ." Christy waited for him to continue. _Maybe this time he'll eat his words like I do mine._ "I've thought long and hard about what you said, about Grantland preaching about the dangers of public displays of affection, especially after we saw Bessie Coburn and John Spencer together by the river. . ."

Neil and Christy had stumbled upon them privately during a walk after one of his science lessons. Her cheeks blazed for what seemed the thousandth time at the recollection.

* * *

She skirted around the springtime blossoms, her sage green skirt swishing against her laced boots as she and Neil made their way down the side of a hill. "Sometimes, Neil, all I want to do is bask under the sun with a good book. . . get lost in the world of Gaston Leroux or some sort."

"Gaston Leroux? What's he written?" Neil's accent nicked through the steamy air.

"Recently, a book called _The Phantom of the Opera_. It's all the rage from the letters my friend Emma sent me."

"That doesn't strike me as a book you'd read. Didn't you tell me you're afraid of the dark?"

"It's not that type of ghost, Doctor. It's about a man that haunts an opera house."

"Fair enough. I'll leave it to the schoolteacher to read what she wants to read. . . I've a mind to read something other than my monthly medical journals."

"Oh!" Christy had gasped, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. Despite living in Cutter Gap for over a year, her Victorian modesty often got the best of her, and, for what it seemed, at the most inopportune times.

"What is it?" Neil followed her eyesight, grabbed her arm, and hid her behind a copse of hickory trees. "We don't want to bother the lovebirds," he stated matter-of-factly, as if finding two adolescents wrapped in each other's arms was a daily occurrence for him.

This wasn't a kiss like David had given her weeks prior—quick, perfunctory, chaste. This was a man and woman in love, twined together on the grassy outskirts of the river near Neil's house.

Her voice came out in a near squeak. "I need to do something!"

The tree bark was rough on her back, scraping through her cambric shirtwaist. "Oh, no you don't!" Neil trapped her between two thick arms, his faded green flannel taut against his forearms. Flames leapt on her cheeks and in her eyes. His hot breath thickened the humidity. His eyes fixated on her, like a mountain lion eyeing a jackrabbit.

"Why not, Neil? They are only teenagers! Bessie is barely fifteen!"

A wicked smile formed on the doctor's full lips as if they held untold secrets. "And you are just barely a young woman, Miss Huddleston."

Ire rose in her chest at his targeted approach to tear at her pride. She had already felt childish, what with her breaking a precious glass vase and forgetting to buy grain in El Pano the day prior. Currently, David was in El Pano, paying for the broken vase and the grain.

"I am almost twenty-one years old, Neil MacNeill. And I am their school teacher, a Christian school teacher! I can't let them—"

His baritone laugh shook the tree he leaned on. . . as if the very trees were laughing with him.

"Neil! Don't mock me!"

"I'm not mocking you, Christy. I am laughing at how your nose wrinkles when you get mad. Every time, without fail, that nose wrinkles up like an English pug. Besides, let them have their fun. It is a lovely day, the birds are singing, the bees are buzzing. . ."

A sprightly curl fell languorously across his brow, momentarily distracting Christy's attention. The breeze picked up the rare scent of aftershave, a smell not often found on the man she associated leather and pipe tobacco with. His full lips taunted her for a taste, and not for the first time, she imagined what it would be like. . . strong, sweet, passionate. Her mouth watered.

"Neil, still. . ." She removed her eyes from his lips to his hazel eyes, "My students need to learn how to wait for the proper time. I'm sure David could preach a sermon about this, maybe something found in Song of Solomon. . . or Ecclesiastes."

Christy sensed Neil bristle when she brought up the young preacher. "Grantland doesn't need to preach a sermon about Bessie and John. It would be to no effect. Actually, he'd do more harm than good."

"That's not true—" Neil put a square-tipped finger on her lips.

"Haven't you had a childhood beau you stole kisses from? Or wish you did? I'll certainly not ruin their innocent fun." He lightly skimmed his thumb across her lips before cradling her face in his wide palm. The hickory creaked from the stirring wind, and a coil of her auburn hair swept onto Neil's lips.

He leaned closer, the rays in his eyes heating her skin and her heart like a warm sunny day. Oh, it wasn't just a sunny day, it was one of the best. She enjoyed her time with the doctor, enjoyed the passion in his voice and the tremor he aroused in her when he stood near. "Perhaps the school teacher needs some fun, too. . ."

He was nothing if not persistent, his Scottish charm like harsh whisky down her throat. She felt like she was choking on his vitality. . . it made her veins throb under her skin. She could only give in to the curiosity - the intoxication - she had for the enigmatic doctor.

Reason overrode sense, and she placed a well-timed hand on his chambray-cloaked chest, his heart hammering underneath her fingertips. "Doctor," she said breathlessly, "we cannot idly stand by and allow my students to behave in such a manner."

"Christy, let Papa explain." He cleared his throat and took a step back, scratching the nape of his scragged hair. His eyes focused on the couple behind her shoulder, and reframed back on her face. "Right now, John and Bessie are away from the difficulties of life for a few fleeting moments. And soon they will be forced back into the present of backbreaking work, hunger, and tiredness. Give them this time, Christy. They need an escape."

She couldn't. She was held accountable to these students, and to God, no less, and needed to protect them from poor decisions. She slipped out from Neil's blockade and huffed over like a mother hen.

"Bessie, John, stop right this instant!" Bessie and John sprung off one another like two cats thrown into a body of water. She heard Neil groan audibly behind her. "You two know better than that! Go home before I tell your mother, John Spencer! And you too, Bessie Coburn!"

A sense of finality and power settled over her shoulders when they sulked back into the forest to their respective homes. . . until Neil's hand rested on her shoulder and whispered, "Always have to be in control now, do we?"

"You're a boor, Neil MacNeill!"

"And you're going to miss your turn soon if you'd stop seeing red!" Neil called after her, the mirth in his voice fraying her rigid sensibilities. And sure enough, it took her twice as long to get back to the mission. Well, she most certainly would tell David, and with sweet relish when David firmly agreed to preach about it that next Sunday.

* * *

"Christy, are you even listening to me? I've been yammering on about this and you're not even with me." His calloused hand caught her wrist. "Slow down, you've been spinning around me with that broomstick and I'm getting dizzy."

"Neil, I—I don't—I just got lost in my thoughts for a moment. You were apologizing to me?"

The seductive lighting of the church deepened as he blew out a candle, the smoke billowing up into the rafters before disintegrating into the night sky. He shifted his gaze to the floor and squashed a bug under his riding boots. "I came here to state my case that Grantland shouldn't preach about public affection. It's a fact of life here that male and female relations are for pleasure and procreation. Why, it all happens in the same cabin. Love-making isn't a silent activity, Christy."

"Neil! We cannot talk about this in a church. . . alone!"

His booming laugh echoed in her ears, embarrassing her. Her prudish manners enticed him even more than Margaret's flagrancy did. Kept him on his toes.

She moved passed him in a sign of busyness and placed the broom in the closet. She blew out one candle, two, three, four. "I just want to protect the children from maturing too early." Her voice felt small in the room's expansive darkness. She didn't rightfully know what she was saying, and felt all the more insecure because of it. _The children know more about love-making than I do_ , she realized. Even Mountie, her beloved, probably had an inkling to what went on behind the curtains hanging around her parent's bed.

"Christy, haven't you seen their eyes? All of these children have seen more than what outsiders might see in a lifetime; don't forget." Neil swung his bags onto his broad shoulders and followed her down the church steps to the mission.

It's as if he read her mind. "I haven't forgotten. We are talking in circles, Neil. At this point, I'm going to wait for what Miss Alice says."

"And she'll side with me. She knows how futile this will be as well, just like preaching against moonshine was."

Christy stopped and poked a finger at Neil's chest. "With no help from you, Neil! If I recall, you warned the moonshiners before the law could apprehend them!"

"The female brain never ceases to flummox me. I do something, she gets mad. I do nothing, she gets mad." He sighed good-naturedly. "You know you confuse me? Just when I think I understand that brain of yours, I'm reminded to step lively." The crow's feet around his eyes walked from the smile on his lips. "But, Christy, as much as I enjoy debating with you, I didn't come to do that tonight. I do hope you see my perspective though."

"I simply disagree." She paused, realizing her tone had taken quite a cutting edge. "Excuse my impertinence. I do respect your perspective—in fact, I want your perspective on another matter entirely. Do you think we can talk about it tomorrow after church?"

Neil cocked his head to one side like a bloodhound on the hunt for a scent. He'd come running. "Certainly, Christy. You know I am always here for you."

And when Christy laid on her bed that night, the patterned quilt cocooned around her body, she wished it was someone's arms instead. And that frightened her more than the impending sermon tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2 - Scientific Inquiry

**Chapter 2 - Scientific Inquiry**

 _Boom!_ Neil MacNeill bolted out of his covers and surveyed his surroundings with dimmed eyes. Girlish laughter rang down the walls and he heard Ruby Mae shouting to Miss Alice of her blunder. What was he doing on a cot in Grantland's bunkhouse?

Ah, he remembered. LuLu Spencer's rash. Festus Allen's compound fracture from falling off a barn roof. Eating a quick dinner at his cabin. Riding to the mission to convince Grantland against sermonizing. _Foolishness,_ Neil thought to himself, and certainly wanted to say it. Not even Cicero could rebuttal against David's dogmatism.

He took a fortifying breath, stretched his tense back muscles, and massaged the grogginess from his sleep-deprived eyes. _You're becoming an old man, Neil. You can't be sleeping on other people's cots anymore._

Unbending himself from the makeshift bed, he stumbled around the room looking for the water basin, the faint smell of rosewater clung to him from the sheets. It was Christy's smell. She must have washed David's linens. Neil inhaled sharply.

While David's was certainly smaller and less tidy than his old cabin in the woods, he couldn't help but notice a feminine presence his own sorely lacked. A milk pitcher, full of lavender, sat on the hearth, a fire roaring underneath. A vase of wildflowers sat beside the uncomfortable couch he had sat on last night arguing with David until the wee hours of the night. A pastoral landscape hung sturdily above the fireplace, depicting a shepherd surrounded by white balls of sheep. Several steps over was more or less a kitchen—a cast iron stove, countertops, and an open door pantry.

"Good morning, Doctor." The front door swung wide, and David's tall stature filled the doorway. "I see you've finally woken up. Breakfast is in the main house if you're interested in some."

"What time is it?" Neil scratched at the unbuttoned part of his haired chest, feeling out of sorts half dressed in front of the starched reverend.

"Just after eight. Church starts in about an hour if you'd like to join us. . . regardless of the topic, or your opinions, you are always welcome."

 _That'll encourage an agnostic like me to come._

"I'll take you up on that offer, Grantland. I'd like to see what happens."

David's jaw flexed in irritation, a small victory in Neil's eyes. "I'll see you at the church." He grabbed his gray woolen coat from a wooden peg on the wall and shut the door closed behind him.

Faint bird calls carried through the opened window, a stream of crisp air billowing out the faint smell of mildew. An armoire and trunk sat in one corner of the room beside a wash basin and a cracked mirror hanging by a thread on the wall. Forgoing shaving, largely in part because he left his straight blade at home, he splashed cold water on his face, a rivulet coursing down his thick neck, and scrubbed his teeth. If he was showing up to church for the first time in years, he may as well look the part. And seeing Christy, well, he wanted to look nice for her too.

The image of the young schoolteacher summoned an unbidden smile. He liked fire in a woman, and Christy heated him like a warm blaze on a cold winter's night. He enjoyed challenging her. . . seeing that nose bunch up in frustration. . . She was a worthy sparring partner and rose to the occasion to box his ears. And beautiful. And gentle with the children he delivered. And different. Sometimes, he felt like a round peg in a square hole; when he was around her, he could just _be_.

He changed out of his nightshirt and put on a red plaid flannel, a brown vest, and his slicker. Sliding his stocking feet into his riding boots, he walked to the stable to feed Charlie, whistling a cheery tune to himself. Pleasantly surprised that he was already eating grain from a trough, he patted his gelding on the shoulder and walked into the main cabin.

Christy, Ruby Mae, and Alice sat around the table full of buckwheat pancakes, blueberries, scrambled eggs, and fried bacon. His stomach grumbled greedily at the feast before him.

Alice rose regally from her seat, her generous eyes smiling at him. "Neil! David told us thee were here. Please, join us. We have more than enough to spare."

"Thank you, Alice. I cannot say no to such a table before me." He sat down, tucked a napkin into his vest, and ate with quiet pleasure. Christy sat stoically beside him in a lumpy sweater that dwarfed her petite frame. _Leave her be this time, Mac. She doesn't need your grief so early in the morning._ Neil knew better than engaging her moodiness, especially in the morning. He poured warm maple syrup on his pancakes and practically groaned at how delicious it was. It sure beat his overcooked grits and eggs any day.

Ruby Mae chattered about like a sparrow, perched and preening for all to see her. He looked up from his meal and saw the topic of conversation— her new hat —gave a gruff nod, and continued slicing his pancakes with clean precision.

"Doc, you cut your flapjacks like it's one of your patients! I ain't never seen a man eat so fast!"

Neil grinned at the girl's impertinence, remembering Christy's similar nature last night. "I suppose I'm trying to catch up from the meals I've missed this week!"

"Give Dr. MacNeill some time to eat in peace, child." Miss Alice rescued him from answering Ruby Mae further. "We appreciate thee spending thy morning with us. Did thee sleep well?"

"I slept like a log, thank you. I hope my snoring didn't keep you awake, Grantland?" Neil eyed the reverend studiously. David stood at the doorway of the dog trot with a mug full of steaming coffee, a hooded look about his eyes.

David was a handsome young man, Neil would give him that. His dark brown hair, almost black, and his warm eyes were quite different than his shaggy reddish blond hair and hazel eyes. He knew his face looked like it was carved from wood with a blunt knife—jagged and bristled and coarse. Even nine years ago at David's age, his face was still deeply etched in wrinkled lines from reading manuscripts over candlelight and working under the Tennessee sun.

"I can sleep through a forest fire, but I appreciate the concern. I shared a bunkhouse with seminarians before I came here. . . let's just say you learn to be adaptable."

Neil grinned at the thought of the straight-laced reverend sharing a bunkhouse with a dozen other men. As Neil usually thought, there were more complex layers than David let on.

"And you, Doctor, did you share a dormitory with other men during your time at Jefferson Medical College?"

Neil wiped his lips with a napkin and nodded. "I did. I shared a bunk with quite a few mates of mine. We still swap correspondence every now and then. Do you?"

"Every month. They were quite surprised I came to Cutter Gap. Thought I was going into 'hillbilly territory,' or some such. I have to admit, they are not wrong in some aspects."

Christy rushed immediately into the conversation, no doubt to preserve Ruby Mae's tender feelings. "Oh, hush, David. Not many pastors can say they've built their church with their own two hands. Why, your classmates are preaching in stone castles in Boston!" Her quick maneuvering of the conversation to appease David's pride and Ruby Mae's good opinion impressed Neil.

"And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. And let the peace of Christ rule in thy hearts, to which indeed thee were called in one body. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell in thee richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in thy hearts to God." Miss Alice quoted, the wistfulness in her eyes a glimpse of Margaret's former youthfulness. The words, while strangely familiar to Neil, loosened his quick tongue and silenced him. Alice had gently rebuked the two of them, but Neil felt it was also for his own benefit.

His heart rarely felt at peace. . . and being called in one body? He experienced unity amongst the highlanders before college, but he wasn't fooling himself at the unstated distance between them. He was a wise man, and no doubt the most educated in the cove, but why did he feel so idiotic? He felt an impending conversation with Miss Alice later.

* * *

After sinking into the last pew beside Ben Pentland, whose eyes all but bulged out of their sockets, he crossed a leg over his knee and waited for the show to begin. The smell of the hymnal reminded him of his mother and the peace in her eyes when she sang. . . and when she passed away. The music. . . Ben's screeching. . . Jeb Spencer's lively tenor. . . it suited him.

 _Grantland's sermon is extraordinary,_ Neil thought to himself. He held a captive audience, potentially due to the subject matter, but Neil knew a public speaker when he met one. And, to his surprise, he had not yet once mentioned public affection.

Neil's eyes wandered the families sitting in front of him. He spied out Jeb Spencer and his sons beside Bob Allen and his four boys. John Spencer seemed to squirm a little in his pew. His eyes then sought for Christy. Sitting at the front beside Fairlight and her daughters, she looked like a fresh wildflower after shedding her sweater, her puffy white shirtwaist enhancing her image. She turned her head and locked eyes with him suddenly before turning away. Not wanting to reveal his conflicted feelings, he fixed his eyes at the front for the remainder of the sermon.

"Affection, held for our brothers and sisters in Christ, should be within the most sacred." Neil gripped his mouth shut in case a chuckle escaped him. "Solomon, arguably the wisest man on the face of the earth, said that passion needs to be bridled like a mule or a horse. If you are married, keep your affections private. If you are unmarried, keep your affections to yourself. As Jesus told His disciples, so I tell you: it is better for you to pluck out an eye or cut off your hand if it is leading you to sin against God. Let us pray."

Out of the corner of Neil's eye, Ben Pentland scratched his head dumbfoundedly before removing his hat from his balding head.

After the service, the mailman turned to the good doctor. "Shorely, I ain't a-lovin' my sister, Doc. I don't rightfully understand."

"Well, I think the preacher was saying all men and women are God's children—brothers and sisters and the like."

"I got me a gal up in El Pano way. She sure don't mind me givin' her kisses. I certainly honor the sacred in her!" Ben clutched his hat to his overalls as if performing an encore. "Ya reckon I stop callin' on her?"

Neil laughed in spite of himself. "I think you'll be fine, Ben. I believe Grantland was speaking for the younger folk in the audience." His eyes wandered over Ben's shoulder to the pretty school teacher talking to David at the front of the church. His pulse quickened into an S-O-S.

If Ben Pentland, of all people, could be kissing a lady in El Pano, surely Neil could be too. . . After all, he was a single, independent man. With wants, and needs, just as any red-blooded male. It grated on his nerves. Neil walked down the aisle to Christy and David and tapped her shoulder.

"Neil!" Christy turned to him, fanning the lovely smell of rosewater to his nose. "How are you?"

"I am fine. I am actually quite impressed by the sermon, Reverend. You weren't too on the nose like I'd thought you'd be."

"Well, I'll take the backhanded compliment, Doc." The handsome man slapped his Bible shut. "I know what it's like to steal a couple kisses from pretty women. I can't say I've been completely chaste as I'd like to be."

Neil raised his eyebrows at the pretty blush spreading across the teacher's face. "And you, Christy? How did you like the sermon?"

"I thought David did a fine job." She held a gloved hand to her pinkened cheek and smiled demurely. "I am sure the audience it was intended for got the message clearly, and that's all that matters."

Neil couldn't resist ribbing her a bit. "I am sure." He leaned closer. "After all, the best kind of passion is done in private like I said." His intended innuendo hit the mark and her face turned scarlet. Neil cleared his throat and stood back up, a smugness creeping over his controlled smile. "You said you wanted to talk to me after church. Is this a good time?"

"Please, join us for lunch, Neil." David interrupted Neil with a thump of his bible on Neil's back. "Ruby Mae has chicken pot pie baking in the oven as we speak."

Hiding a grimace for Ruby Mae's less than savory cooking, he accepted the invitation and escorted Christy to the mission house.

After a stilted and surprisingly filling lunch, Neil eased his limbs down on the settee in the living room and crossed his arms over his chest. A doily tickled his ear and he pulled it out from behind his head and studied it. Cream ecru lace. It reminded him of the collars on Christy's dresses. He shut his eyes and envisioned pressing kisses down her supple neck. If she knew how quickly his thoughts changed about her. . . would she be able to stomach him?

"Neil, are you ready?" Christy touched his shoulder, stunting him momentarily. He cracked open his eyes and saw her arms full of teaching supplies.

"I am."

They settled to sit under the gazebo, the sun warming the back of his neck. He had forgone his coat earlier and rolled up his sleeves at the unusually hot day. "What would you like to discuss, Miss Huddleston?" His stormy eyes careened into hers, like a lost ship at sea.

"Why — straight to business! I wanted to talk about the sermon with you. Did it go how you'd wished?"

"Well, Grantland didn't flog them in public, so I guess we both won."

"Fair enough," her comment assured him that all was over.

The frame of the gazebo creaked in their companionable silence, and they both watched a heron float gently on the pond's surface. He drifted along the coastline before straightening himself onto the boardwalk. The heron gazed in their direction, sizing them up to be friend or foe, then promptly ignored them. Neil felt another pair of fine eyes watch him, and he shifted his large frame in the delicate scrollwork chair.

"Neil, what would you say to a four-week course in scientific inquiry?"

A smile gradually caught his face. "Scientific inquiry?" His brain funneled through several ideas, each pooling together in a concise plan for the students. He never particularly thought of the students' curriculum until Christy came along last year, and now his brain matched hers on the students' learning.

"Yes, like teaching students how to ask questions, finding and creating variables, testing the questions and collecting data and results. . . I think some of our lessons could take it a step further and actually teach things that are applicable. Like building a fire—I'm sure after many failed attempts, someone went back to the root issue and found the best way in lighting it or some such. You see, we can have the students—"

Christy's excited breathlessness encouraged him. "Pause, Christy, for a second. I am intrigued, but what brought this along?"

Her eyes brimmed with eagerness, encouraged by his positive response. "Well, I'm reading a book about scientific inquiry now, and I see that my students struggle to apply scientific reasoning to their daily lives. You do such an amazing job with the students. . . But what about teaching them to _think_ scientifically — like when they do their chores, or baking a pie, or washing clothes, instead of just inside the classroom?" Christy looked down, suddenly shy, and toyed with the hem of her sleeve, her slender fingers dancing like tiny marionettes. "I want my students to be like you."

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear what you said."

Her blue eyes sought his. "I want my students to think like you did when you were their age: curious about life and the mind of science. And I want you to help me."

Her good opinion of him mattered, and her flattery rendered him speechless for a moment.

"Neil?" She questioned, insecurity weaving into her tone.

It was unfair of him to leave her guessing. "Pardon. I'd be glad to help in any way I can. You don't suppose we can talk about this more soon when I come better equipped, say next Sunday?"

"That is a reasonable time to meet back up. I can start outlining what we can include in the classroom. Oh, think about all we can do!"

In her excitement, she sprang from the chair and a sharp tearing noise cut through the spring afternoon stillness. A look of mortification spread across the young teacher's face as she observed her chair. A chunk of sky blue fabric clung to the scrollwork, and Neil let out a hearty chuckle at Christy's expense.

"I need to go, excuse me!" Christy gathered the tomes and ran to the mission before Neil stood up to offer her his assistance. He watched her retreating figure shrink until she was inside the brown mission house, her white petticoat a beacon against her blue dress. Laughing to himself, he eyed the blue fabric fluttering gently in the wind. Looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching, he pulled out a knife from his trouser pocket and cut the offending scrap off the chair before pocketing it in his vest.

* * *

 _Scripture:_

 _Colossians 3:14-16_


	3. Chapter 3 - The Pot Roast

**Chapter 3 - The Pot Roast**

 _ **Two weeks later**_

"Creed Allen, don't talk while I am talking." Christy inflected her tone sternly, making sure the young rapscallion knew she meant business even if it was the last few minutes of Thursday's class.

"Yessum, Miz Christy." Twitters of laughter across the sixty-seven students ricocheted off the high ceiling, a bullet to Creed's tender heart. He slid lower in his seat, his bottom lip pronounced in a pout.

"As I was saying, tomorrow we are going fishing with Dr. MacNeill and the reverend. Last Friday, Dr. MacNeill spoke about scientific inquiry in our daily lives. Now, we are going to apply that understanding with some fishing. If you can," she enunciated, "please come with your fishing gear. If you don't have any, we can cast string out just the same." She paused, feeling the energy of the room heighten to erupt. She clasped her hands together. "Alright—class dismissed."

Hoots and hollers rose over the scraping of wooden chairs against the floor and the thumps of primers stacked haphazardly in their respective piles. Christy tidied her desk and opened the bottom drawer for the blackboard rag. Ruby Mae and Rob Allen, two of her class monitors, stayed back to straighten up the desks and primers before bidding her farewell.

A girlish giggle escaped her lips as she swept the rag over the chalk. She was excited for the adventure she planned with Neil—and of course the students needed a break from the somewhat stuffy classroom. The humid weather coupled with dense foliage made the classroom a primitive sauna.

"Miz Christy, we really goin' fishing tomorrow?" Zady Spencer queried softly behind her.

Christy smiled at her soft-spoken student. "Yes, Zady, we are. Is there anything wrong?"

"Nothing wrong, ma'am. I enjoyed fishin' with my papa growin' up, but suppose the lil'uns don't know how?"

"Mr. Grantland or Dr. MacNeill will teach them. I'll let you in on a little secret—I don't know how to fish at all."

Zady's eyes rounded as if she had seen a ghost. "No ma'am!"

"Yes. I grew up in the city, remember? I wasn't taught some of the skills you were growing up. My mama taught me how to play the piano, not how to cook."

"I sometimes forget you come from the city." Zady fingered Christy's treasured copy of _Anne of Green Gables_ on her desk, her shy nature endearing to the schoolteacher.

Christy's heart jumped at the innocent comment. It wasn't an insult—it meant she accepted her as a highlander (despite not knowing how to fish or cook). She pressed the girl in a tight embrace. "Zady, sometimes I do too. I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart."

The smile on Zady's adorable face vanquished the tired look about her eyes, transforming her into a pretty young lady who was simply overlooked. After last year's debacle, she made sure to include Zady on anything of scientific importance.

The din of Zady's boots down the porch steps slowly cleared to the mellowed sound of Christy's rag against blackboard. She fluttered about like a sparrow alighting on branches, fixing her little room to her liking before closing the back door behind her. The overhead blue stretched before her like a blanket enveloping the fuzzed pines and wild oaks.

"Thou art blooming this afternoon, Miss Huddleston." Miss Alice spoke to Christy while they were snapping green beans over a pot of boiling water. Miss Alice had just returned from Low Gap earlier in the day and Christy's spirits booned. Each time Miss Alice left, Christy suddenly clammed up, like a child stuck in the body of a woman. All it took was one moment in the presence of the serene woman to right her wrongs.

Christy's pink face from the steam deepened from her compliment. "Oh, Miss Alice, God blessed me today. Zady Spencer, Rob Allen, even Creed—the children were joys today."

"I often find that loving children is a similar act to how God loves us. Store these moments in thy heart, Christy. . . recounting thy joys is a precious thing."

They chatted about the children's progress and the three students who would be "graduating" in two months. Two months! Rob's college acceptance and his refusal. . . John's infatuation. . .

She was so young—even then! She felt like she matured more as each month passed, a bud on the cusp of bouquet.

"I am going to miss having Rob Allen and John Spencer in class, regardless of our slight difficulties. They've been such a help to me."

"And Lundy Taylor?" Miss Alice asked, shaking salt and pepper into the pot. She did not miss the conflicted look on Christy's face.

"Lundy? I wish him the best."

Miss Alice held a finger to her lips to hide a humorous smile.

"What about wishing Lundy the best?" David's commanding voice filled the small kitchen. Sweat glistened on his face, his shirt dark and plastered to his chest with perspiration. His odor of earth and salt mingled in the air with pot roast—not as unsavory as Christy thought.

"We were just talking about the students graduating. What have you been working on today?"

She moved closer to the stove for him to pass, her heart pounding a little harder with his large presence in the small room. He quietly swept his hand across her shoulder blades before settling in front of the sink. Her belly flipped inwardly at the sparkling touch like a moth touching the flames of a kerosene lamp.

A touch on the shoulder or lower waist. . . a quick kiss on the lips when no one was in sight. . . their intimacy slowly moved into familiarity. If she was honest with herself - which she naturally struggled to do as an overthinker—their fast-paced relationship unnerved her. She loved staring at his beauty and the tension she felt in her body at his ministrations. . . but outside of their secret touches? Christy sighed. For now, she endeavored to keep their relationship in the _present_.

David rolled his sleeves over his elbow and scrubbed his forearms with lye soap. "I mucked out the stables, weeded out the vegetable garden, and repaired the fence around the corral." He took deep gulps of water and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"Very productive day, it seems. How has thee been getting on with Ault Allen recently? Before leaving for Low Gap this week, I understand thee had a fight with him? Thee knows how I feel about this, David."

"I am trying to mend fences." David's jaw clenched tightly, outlining the fine sculpting of his chiseled face.

"In what way? I passed by Ault earlier and he looked like he could spit nails. Said thee 'Did me wrong,' or some sort."

"I've had it with Ault!" David slammed his hand on the counter, rattling the silverware.

"David," Christy consoled, "what happened?"

"I told him that no man was head of the Allen clan, except God. And if he wanted to experience God, as he so professed, he needed to humble himself." David muttered.

Miss Alice raised her eyebrows and an 'O' formed on her lips. "Thy words were hastily formed. It is unwise to create an adversary with Ault."

Christy couldn't help but agree with Miss Alice but she would never tell David that.

"You don't think I know that, Alice?" David groaned in frustration.

"Thee knows not to sleep on thy anger."

"I am not going to lie to the man!"

"But David, change comes slowly. . . like water flowing downstream. It takes time, erosion, weathering. It requires a relationship more than just preaching behind a pulpit spouting off platitudes."

David looked at Alice as if she slapped him. "I spoke biblical truth and if he can't handle it then I don't know what to tell him."

Alice held her hands up in capitulation. "Be ye holy, for I am holy."

Pressing, pressing, pressing. . . Alice knew the words to humble a stubborn man like David Grantland. He folded; his lips quirked in a self-deprecating smile. "You always win, Miss Alice. I'll talk to Ault first thing in the morning. Give me time to lick my wounds in private."

Miss Alice smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "Thee will do, David. Thee will do." She thumbed open the pocket sewn on her dress and pulled out her grandfather's pocket watch. "It is time for me to spend some much need time in rest. Christy -"

"The pot roast should be done in an hour or so—go, Miss Alice. I'll handle it from here."

"Bless thee, child."

"That Alice—" David said when she was out of earshot, shaking his head.

"She cares for you, David. And I care for you."

His eyes matched the flames in the stove, flicking familiar sparks into her belly. "Do you, now?" He stalked forward, frightening the gumption out of her. Her movements felt sluggish as if she were drowning, drowning in his deep-set eyes. Her mind reeled in tandem; attraction and repulsion at odds with one another like two wrong ends of magnets.

He caught her into a corner; her breath caught against her breast. "David—" He pressed a kiss on her neck, scattering goosebumps down her skin and silencing her protestations. His fingers, long and slender and harsh, danced on the back of her shirtwaist, pulling her closer and closer until she fell against his chest. Warm kisses trailed up her throat to her jaw before he caressed her lips underneath his. His tongue licked at her lips, seeking its own intent without asking for her permission. She pushed him away, her breasts heaving wildly against her corset.

"I got a little carried away this time, didn't I?"

"David, we can't keep doing this." Her eyes scanned the tips of her pointy shoes from underneath her dress. How was she still standing?

"You know I love you. . . Why do you keep fighting what you know we both want? You're playing with me, Christy."

 _Incredulous._ That was the word. She crossed her arms over her chest. "David, I can't believe you. What do you know of what I want when all you do is take?"

The door slammed behind her with a gust of wind, an exclamation mark at the end of her unsaid sentence.

"Christy!" His calls fell flat on her ears.

* * *

Her feelings for David kept her tossing and turning like waves on a midnight sea, blown about every which way in her doubts and insecurities. How could she go on kissing David when she rebuked Bessie and John for doing the same? The hypocrisy tasted like iron in her mouth.

She sat straighter in her bed, the quilt flung to the side during the middle of her slumber. Her hair hung in a loose plait from her tossing and turning, and she felt the weight under her eyes pull her down deep into mental anguish. "Lord, what do I do?"

Not even the crow of a rooster was heard over the morning stillness. Did God even listen to her? She often waited to hear something. . . anything. . . but did not expect a response. She hastened through her morning chores to avoid David, except to remind him of their excursion, and all but ran to the schoolhouse thirty minutes earlier than normal. Not that her earliness mattered, because most of her students stood on the porch, their expectant faces buoying her dour spirit.

"You all ready to go?" Christy jumped when she heard David's voice behind her.

"You a-scared her, preacher!" Ruby Mae threw an arm around Christy's shoulders. "That's bad luck right there, scarin' a schoolteacher on a Friday!"

"Ruby Mae, now that's just ridiculous. You're making that up!" Creed hollered. "The rule is ya can't be scarin' no postman on a Sunday or all your deliveries will turn to ash."

Sam Houston rose to the conundrum. "Creed, you got that all wrong! It's you can't be spookin' a cow on the Sabbath or it won't produce any milk until the year of Jubilee!"

"Enough!" David placed a hand on the boys' shoulders. "This is all hokum anyway."

"Let's go!" Rob's feigned maturity dropped and was instantly replaced with cultured childishness. "We don't wanna keep Doc waitin'!"

And so, the great migration of sixty-seven students, one teacher, and one reverend morphed into sixty-nine fishermen on the trek for scientific inquiry. _We all look like a bunch of Tom Sawyers and Huck Finns._ Christy held Mountie O'Teale's hand, eyeing her crude fishing pole as a thing of beauty. Even with her finite knowledge of fishing, Christy knew Mountie would catch a wallop of lake grass at best.

The squadron went down the scenic Cutter Branch and past the O'Teale's ramshackle cabin, across the spot where Christy and Ole Theo fell in the creek by Neil's waterfront cabin, and through the brush where Neil almost kissed Christy weeks prior. Christy stumbled over a tree root.

David caught up to Christy's elongated strides before she elbowed him hard in the ribs. "Not here, in front of the children."

"Miss Huddleston!" David reacted, his chocolate-brown-Singer-Lee eyes pleaded with her.

The sound of water trickling over stones soon met their ears near the bend at Big Spoon Creek, and the children's three-beat gait turned into a full-fledged gallop. Swept into the children's enthusiasm, she ran down the hill, one hand on her hat, the other at the front of her skirts.

"Hullo, hullo!" The children swarmed the doctor like bees around Job Spencer's bee box hive.

Sam Houston ran to the burly highlander and laced a hand around his forearm. "Doc MacNeill, we're ready to inquire scientifically!"

Neil's eyes crinkled. "Well, I am ready to help, Sam Houston! That is if Miss Huddleston wants."

"By all means, Doctor. Mr. Grantland and I are only here to assist."

Neil's sharp eyes noticed the awkward tension between the two missionaries. . . David's hound dog face and Christy's ramrod posture just added to the hilarity.

"You'll be doing more than assisting me." He hoped he could assist her too.

* * *

 _Scripture:_

 _1 Peter 1:16_


	4. Chapter 4 - An Afternoon By The River

**Chapter 4 - An Afternoon By The River**

The children ran circles around Doc MacNeill as he explained all that Christy hoped he would: the history of fishing and evolution of the rod, the type of bait used to attract certain fish, the scientific method in fishing. . . _How did he know so much about so many different things?_

Each student, placed in two rows down both sides of the river, cast their lines into the calming waters. She felt tension in herself, unlike the tension found at the other end of her students' fishing lines. David's eyes pricked her back like needles. . . she busied herself with the O'Teale clan in case he was watching her.

Mountie's small, consternated face poked behind Neil's fishing rod like a cautious little mole; her brother Orter Ball, by nature, watched on stoically. Her gaze transfixed on Neil's thick hands making light work restringing Mountie's snapped line. The fishing rod was a feat of manmade beauty. The neck, made of fine bamboo, shown brilliantly over the smoothed black leather from hours of handling. His generosity in giving the child one of his prized possessions. . . jealousy flared deep within her, aberrant and sinister against her little student.

The irregularity frightened her and her pulse. Something had to be wrong with her - with her actions and her words and her thoughts and her attitude. Spiraling deep, deep within herself, she hit the bottom of her heart's wellspring and was stuck in a morass. _God, grant me inner peace!_

The beating of her heart softened to the quiet, gentle murmurings of the wind between the canopied trees. The brook gurgled in babyish laughter. . . reminding her of Iris. . . Peace. Tranquility. Like Peter stepping out on the Sea of Galilee in faith to his Teacher. _Thank You._

"Doc, how'd ya do that so fast?" Sam Houston's eyes peered under his straw hat. The doctor sat upon his haunches and flicked Sam Houston's brim.

"Lots of practice. I am quite older than you, Sam Houston. Plus, it helps that I live by the river. I am out fishing several times a week. . . Ah, see Sam? You're treating the lure improperly. You see, using live bait is like trapping a hare. You sit and wait patiently for the fish to bite. A lure requires some hunting. You stalk. . . moving in and out of the waves to catch a fish daring enough to take."

Christy did not realize there was a difference. Neil looked back at her with a toothy grin. He stood up—not lithely, for he was solidly built—but easily, like the sturdy reading chair she sank into after a long day of school. "It's like courtship, Sam. Women want to be lured in, pursued, hunted. Lures attract the tastier, harder earned fish. Baiting is too easy when you've mastered the sport."

"Yessir." The confusion in Sam's innocence grabbed hold of Christy's throat. She swallowed. She was hooked.

"Miz Christy, how come my fish don't bite?" Christy looked at Clara Spencer's fishing pole—a stick with yarn tied at the top.

"I think it's because there are so many hooks to choose from. Maybe try casting it out again?" With her teacher's help, Clara reeled in her soggy yarn and swung it back overhead, the hook catching air and lodging in the cattails.

"It's stuck!" Clara bemoaned loudly.

"Hand it to me and I'll give it a go." Christy took the stick from her hands and tugged at the twine roughly. The line sagged and then snapped, too damp and heavy from the river water. "Oops!"

Clara hid her face in the folds of Christy's dress, her cries mumbled in the fabric. Between comforting Clara, yelling at Creed Allen and Little Burl to stop playing in the doctor's tackle box, and avoiding David, she felt like her time out of the schoolhouse was more hassle than educational.

Zady managed to pry Clara's tiny yet strong arms away from Christy's waist and carry her off home to cry to mama. Christy understood her heartbreak. Many summers ago, after organizing her friends to build a neighborhood treehouse, the side she constructed collapsed. . . and she drenched the bermuda grass and her father's handkerchief in salty tears.

She felt a brooding presence behind her back. "Christy, we need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about, David." She set her eyes on Sam Houston, his grin matching the largemouth bass dangling from his rod.

"There's everything to talk about. I want to apologize for my behavior. . . and what I said yesterday. It was unacceptable."

 _Peace. I need to give the poor man peace. Look out not only to your own interests, but to the interest of others also. Take on the mind of Christ._

She looked at him as if he was a sheep without a shepherd. Compassion. "You are forgiven. It was out of line, but it is not completely your fault. I got angry. I know I haven't been completely forthcoming with my feelings, but I care enough to let you kiss me and hold me. . . Please, let that be enough for now."

"For now, Christy. For now. You know I still want you to marry me."

She nodded. There was no point in adding she was still just as unsure now as she was many moons ago. Her face bespoke emotions too complex for words, and David had no Rosetta Stone to decipher it.

She certainly loved him as a friend. His spiritual guidance over the past year and a half coaxed her flight of fancy to an abiding, hand-in-hand walk with God. Without his shepherding, her personal ministry to the highlanders would surely suffer. Was that all she felt for him. . . gratitude of some sort?

She'd rather not entertain the thought.

* * *

Neil's quick observations mentally wrote up David and Christy's discomfort. Whatever David said to her. . . she guarded herself like a gate to a forbidden garden. He knew it would take time—her own pace—for him to be let in. He was patient. He'd wait a century if it meant being let in on her own grounds.

Time passed like a stone tossed in the river, rippling out fleetingly among the swamp grass and his pocket watch.

Neil's stomach rumbled. Time for lunch. "Well, Miss Huddleston, it seems your students are fishermen." He crossed his arms over his barreled chest, watching the cove's children delight in the beauty of his river.

"I believe they are, Dr. MacNeill. I cannot thank you enough for helping me with this, and for your river."

"There's nothing to thank me for. The river is just as much yours as it is mine."

His stomach rumbled again, and this time, Christy poked his arm with a finger. "I'll dismiss the children. It seems our resident bear needs some fish."

She called for the children, said some parting words, and dismissed them for the rest of the day. As some students stayed around to fish, or trickle downstream to their homes, Christy bubbled to each student, doling out hugs or encouragement.

Sam Houston tapped the doctor on the back. "Ya think we could cook our fare 'fore we go? Some of us are hankerin' for our meals."

"Go set a fire, Sam. You don't need my permission. Here, hand me your fish and I'll clean and scale them for you."

Sam and Creed let out a whoop and scurried around like two badgers, gathering pine cones, sticks, and overturned logs. In minutes, they struck steel against flint and had a tiny flame blazing in their haphazard tepee.

David overheard him. . . Neil bit back a groan. "I'll help you, Doctor."

"Be my guest. Follow me."

They walked up his porch steps and bent over his work desk; David had cleaned while he scraped each fish, tail to head, their scales flaking like feathers into the bucket.

The silence between the two men were so loud it rang in Neil's ears.

"Is there something you want to talk about? It is not every day we are scaling fish together on my front porch."

"I realize we aren't the closest, but I need someone outside of my congregation to vent to."

Did David not notice how he was a part of his congregation? Neil had been going to church the past couple of weeks. No matter, he arrived late during the opening hymn and slipped out before the benediction finished. Only Neil could find amusement in David's obvious discomfort.

"I am all ears. What do you need venting about?"

David looked over both shoulders and around the corner of his cabin. "It is about Christy."

An eyebrow shot up, but otherwise, Neil maintained a proper poker face. "And?"

"Christy and I have some sort of. . . understanding. . . if you will. She knows I am interested in proposing marriage to her. I find her reticence frustrating, especially since we - never mind that. It addles me, and I can't wrap my mind around it."

"Do you _need_ to wrap your mind around it?" Neil sliced the fish too sharply and the knife fell out of his hands and to the dusty floor.

"Careful, Doctor." He paused as Neil dug around his cabinet, shielding the ceramic jug of moonshine out of David's eyesight to find a clean rag. "I need to win her if I am to marry her."

"Women," Neil closed the door and cleaned the blade thoroughly, "In my limited knowledge, mind, want to be understood. They certainly do not want to be conquered. Just like Ault Allen, just like any person in this cove."

"Well, in my defense, Doc—"

Creed Allen ran to the bottom of the stairs. "You got them thar fish ready for me?" He hollered, sounding just like his father when working the mill.

"Here you are, Creed." David ladened the boy with a stack of filleted fish on a pewter plate. "Watch yourself around the fire."

Christy followed quickly on Creed's heels. "The last of the children are gone, save Creed and Sam." Neil could see the suspicion on her face. "Why, what are you men talking about?"

"Nothing that need concern you, Christy." Neil winced at David's words. "I'll go ahead and see myself out. I have a sermon I need to write. Would you like to walk back with me?"

"I am going to stay. I'll walk the boys back home. Besides, Dr. MacNeill and I need to prepare for next Friday's lesson."

Neil may be dense in some ways, but he saw David stake his claim a mile away blindfolded. Neil needed to tread carefully. "I'll escort her back, Grantland. No fear, we got the children for chaperones."

"Alright. I'll see you both soon. And Neil—we'll talk later." He set his hat on his head, walked past the boys dancing about the fire like moths, and up the hill to the mission.

"Do you think I could borrow some soap, Neil? I'd like to wash my hands before lunch."

"My front door is open. The soap is by the sink in the kitchen. Here, I'll follow you."

He stretched over to hold the door open for her, then eyed her delicately wash her small hands. Neil himself scrubbed his hands and forearms with lye soap vigorously, the lather building up like a spent horse's coat.

"I never noticed this painting above your fireplace. Did Margaret paint it?"

His breath hitched. "Yes, she did. It was a wedding gift."

"Do you miss her?"

He had to be honest. "At times, I do. Mostly, I reflect on those times with great sorrow. We were very unhappy together. I was young and foolish, and shouldn't have taken an even younger wife."

"I am sorry. I know from Miss Alice that your relationship was a short one."

"It was only three years. What is done is done. I do not regret a single thing. Without her, I would not be back here in Cutter Gap." _And neither would Alice, Grantland, or you,_ he wanted to say. "So I'd say our relationship brought a lot of good, too."

"I am thankful for that. You once told me that you mountain men don't share your feelings quite easily. But I'll share mine and say I am very happy to have you here."

His pulse raced for the thousandth time around the woman. His hazel eyes swept her up and down, trying to discover the secret to his enchantment. Neil couldn't resist. . . he could never keep his fingers still. He reached out, ever so slightly, and lightly brushed a finger across her cheek, like a butterfly's wings against his skin. He wanted to course his fingers through her auburn hair, but he drew the line there. _She's a garden gate. Let her set the terms._

With that sobering realization, he pocketed his stray hand and hunted down his corncob pipe. "I appreciate you saying that. I often forget why I made such a hasty decision, but I love my people."

He turned his back on her and packed his tobacco methodically, giving himself time to recompose his errant thoughts. Lighting the bowl, he puffed on it until it was to his liking.

"Care to join me with the boys?" Christy touched his forearm, the hairs raised to her touch like flowers stretching to meet the sun.

The smile lines pulled at his mouth and she led the way. Once they arrived, the boys were already feeding dirt into the fire. "Already finished?"

"We ate like two possums at a snail parade!" Creed called. "Sam Houston caught the best fish, and my daddy taught me how to cook 'em just right!"

"You've got a good pa." Neil nodded. "And Sam, when you come by with your next batch of arrowheads, bring your fishing rod. Same goes for you too, Creed."

Their slack-jawed looks amused him. "Thank ya kindly, Doc! I'll rightly come by soon!"

And with that, the boys were out of sight, their only remains a spent fire and a dirtied plate. "Christy, give me a moment to clean up." He grabbed their plate and ate the charred remnants of their feast.

"Need any assistance?"

"No, you go on ahead and eat your lunch. It'll only be a minute."

Christy sat on the brink of the shore, her dress flown about her like a painted bunting's wings. Neil saw an opportunity. He grabbed his fishing rod from where Mountie hastily stowed it, pulled on his rubber galoshes, and waded out to mid-calf waters.

Clouds evaporated from the sky and the river reflected the sun's rays in his face. He wasn't a romantic—far from it, stumbling over his words and tugging at his hair too often—but it was a lovely day with an even lovelier woman.

"What are you thinking about?" He asked her, safely away from her bright eyes to ask vulnerable questions.

"Oh, Neil, just the children. I thought it was very kind of you to extend an invitation to the boys to fish with you. They adore you, you know. . . I think they'd prefer you teaching over me any day of the week."

Neil's ego absorbed the compliment, sending his head higher and higher to touch the expansive sky above him. "I doubt that. Nothing like a pretty school teacher to keep the boys' attention."

"Neil!" She bent over onto her knees and splashed him playfully, sending water droplets across his brawny chest. "I hope not! After that John Spencer incident, I try to be above reproach in any way I can. Even being out here, alone with you—well—"

He smiled at her naivete. "I believe you have, too. And there is nothing wrong fishing with me in broad daylight. I'm just saying, you can't change your appearance, Christy. Take the compliment."

Her blush suited her already sun-pinkened face. "Well, thank you."

He stood in comfortable silence, casting and recasting his line until he got into a rhythm again. He knew the fish weren't going to bite, not after dozens of lures and bait and feet sat in the water this afternoon. Christy unpacked her basket and spread her food about her as jam across toast, listening to the waters lap the shores and enjoying the breeze through her hair.

He broke their silence after about thirty minutes. "I never saw you take up a fishing rod. . . Makes me wonder if you've fished before."

"I actually haven't, Neil. I didn't grow up with a river in my front yard like you did."

"Would you like to join me?" His invitation sounded dull in his ears. What kind of wooing was this? He was doing a bungled job. _At least Grantland is too,_ he thought sheepishly.

"Would you mind?" Her answer surprised him.

"Not at all. Let me come closer to shore. I wouldn't want to get your hem wet."

She stood and brushed the crumbs off her shirtwaist and shook the dust from her dress. She had undone the top two buttons of her shirtwaist, revealing a creamy throat and a filigree necklace dipped in the hollow of her throat. He looked away from her buxom figure and swallowed. _Maybe this isn't such a good idea._

He handed her the rod and stood back at a safe distance. "You handle it like this. . . not like a baseball bat, more like this. . ." Christy's confused, interspersed dialogue humored him.

"I don't get it. How did Mountie O'Teale understand it and not me?"

"Well, these kids didn't grow up in no Asheville," he mimicked their country accent for her, easing her insecurities.

"I suppose not. How do I cast the line out again?"

His arms came around her, her body locking into his chest like a toggle button on a well-used jacket. "You line the front of the rod to wear you want to cast, turn your body just so, and bring it forward with your wrist, not your elbow. That's the problem. Follow my motions."

He deliberately took his time, winding down the line and casting it out. He hadn't been that close to someone since Margaret died. . . Nope, since that day in the woods with Christy. She made him feel more a man and more himself than ever before.

"I got it!" A warm smile flickered her features so softly it felt like a caress. She tilted her head back on his shoulder. He hoped she didn't feel his heart thundering away violently in his chest. The lightning he felt around her - now that was something entirely different. "Let's see if they'll bite."

They swayed back and forth, not to any music from the Victrola, but to the water's tranquil beat. Catch and release. Catch and release. "What do I do when a fish comes?"

"Don't worry about it. For now, let's enjoy the dance."

"You like to tease me, Doctor. I'd have you know, I am not easily put off." Her tone was playful, flirtatious almost. It startled him and all he could do was laugh.

"I'll never forget last month. I tried to put off your plans about Bessie and John, to little effect."

She turned in his arms, almost dropping the rod into the river. He grabbed ahold of it just as she placed a well-manicured hand on his chest. Her worrisome gaze rose to meet his. Sharp furrows sunk into his brow. "You were right about that, too. I judged them prematurely. Will you forgive me?"

He brought his other arm around to steady the line, inadvertently crushing her against his chest. His eyes sought hers, her emotional outburst buffing out his edged nerves. "What is there to forgive? I egged you on too. I didn't necessarily help the situation."

"I just wanted you to know. I don't want to appear hypocritical." Her voice, tremulous and fleeting like the trickling water smoothing polished stones beneath their feet, made him fiercely protective.

"We are all hypocrites in some way, Christy. I think what matters is that you aren't overly critical of yourself. No one is perfect—take it from someone who knows."

She nodded, the top of her chignon hitting his chin.

They had never been so close in proximity before. He studied her face, detailing the curve of her silky jaw. The smattering of freckles across her buttoned nose. The wispy hair she struggled to tuck behind her ears. How she quirked her lips to the side in an understated smile. His eyes trailed lower, lower, admiring her generous breasts outlined in her shapely attire. How she fit into his arms. . . Fire scorched his cheeks.

He reluctantly let go after a couple blissful moments, the awareness of shame creeping up in his thoughts. "I guess we should get you back to the mission," he all but choked out.

She seemed affected by his perusal as well, her voice barely punctuating a whisper. "I guess."

And he struggled to keep distance from her on Charlie. Her breasts, outlined curvaceously under the top of her head, gave him a physical ache inside. It was cruel, cruel punishment indeed. He'd have to take a cold bath. And finally eat something for lunch.


	5. Chapter 5 - Between the Devil & the Deep

**Chapter 5 - Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea**

Christy wiped the dining room table down with the edge of her apron before sitting down. Finally. It was her special time with Fairlight that she looked forward to each Tuesday. It was more than just teaching Fairlight how to read. It was a time of friendship and good-natured gossip, freshly baked biscuits, Bible reading, and refreshment in each other's company. Fresh air swirled into the room, billowing the calico curtains gently against the window frame.

Fairlight's red-kerchief bobbed over the top of the windowsill as she walked alongside the mission's porch up the stairs, making Christy laugh in exuberance.

"I hear ya laughin' through the window, Miz Christy. What'd I do now? You're always laughin' at me!" Fairlight good-naturedly called out to her friend through the open door.

"You look like a groundhog, Fairlight! All I can see is the top of your head peeking out from the window!"

Fairlight's piercing eyes squinted in mirth as she alighted the threshold. She put her hands on her slender hips. "And I was just thinkin' to myself, 'Why, Miz Christy looks just like a bird-foot violet today!' Maybe I shoulda thought you a real bird's foot!"

Christy smiled at her closest friend. "I see you've brought some honey. Come and take a seat, I'll grab the biscuits warming on the stove." She crossed over the dogtrot and into the kitchen. After taking an oven mitt off the hook, she carried the steaming biscuits and crock of butter back to Fairlight.

Fairlight generously drizzled honey on each of their biscuits and leaned back contentedly on the ladderback chair. "Ah, nice and quiet for our readin' lessons. No interruptions from Jeb, the children, or a certain. . . singer."

Christy echoed wholehearted thanks.

"Good afternoon, Miz Spencer!" Ruby Mae bounded into the room like an enthusiastic puppy. _So_ _much_ _for_ _that_! Fairlight jumped in her seat, a rare and guilty blush rising to her cheeks. Christy chewed the inside of her lip to keep from laughing outright.

"Ruby Mae, it is good to see you. Will you be playin' a spell?" Fairlight asked hesitantly.

"Why, of course! I came from Bessie Coburn's because I know how much you both enjoy my singin' during y'all's lessons! I'll get right to it, seein' youse got your good books out!" Ruby Mae posed herself in front of the piano, vigorously flipped through her first primer, and haltingly played an indistinguishable song.

That was until she started singing _In the Sweet By and By._ Then it was apparent that yet again, Christy and Fairlight's lessons would make little progress over Ruby Mae's screeching yards away.

"What are we gonna do about that Ruby Mae?" Fairlight whispered over her biscuit. "I couldn't think of no ideas when I was walkin' over here."

"I was hoping you had a better plan than me, Fairlight. We got ourselves in this mess." If there was any humor in her voice, Christy would simply have to repent later. She leaned forward on her elbows. "We need to find someone, something, to occupy her time. Maybe have Rob Allen come over on Tuesdays to do light work around the mission?"

"We can't bring that poor boy into this." Fairlight laughed. "He'll run for the hills if he heard us plottin' about 'im."

"What else can we do? We've tried everything."

Indeed, they had. Every week for the past month, they endured a couple painful songs before sending Ruby Mae on some convoluted chore. . . cleaning the silverware. . . beating the rugs. . . hand-washing eggshells. . . all with her talking their ears off. Reading at the Spencer's cabin was out of the question—Lulu and Least'un demanded too much of Fairlight and Christy's attention.

"We're caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, Christy. She just wants to be a part of our time. . . to be a woman with other women." Her country-soft voice matched the worn table, smooth and gentle and firm.

Christy's brain spun a plan like one of Grannie Barclay's yarns. "That's just it! What if we encourage Ruby Mae to start a Bible study of her own on Tuesdays?"

"Now, I think ya hit on somethin'!"

"Ruby Mae!" Christy yelled over the discordant cacophony in the next room. "Come here, please."

"Yes'sum?" She said a little breathlessly.

It took brave convincing on Christy's part, hoping that Ruby Mae didn't see through their thinly-veiled plan to be rid of her. Fairlight interjected her own kernels of wisdom, buttering up the redhead like one of her yeast rolls. "Why, you're a leader among the girls in school. All my little ones do is talk about ya."

"And you could even host it in the schoolhouse if you'd like. We can make molasses cookies and tea for a snack each week."

Christy had a difficult time gauging Ruby Mae's reaction. . . until a tear slipped from her eye. "You really think I can do somethin' like that? I don't know much of the Bible. Just started readin' it when you came to teach, Miz Christy."

That sobered Christy. _If Miss Alice learns of the motivation behind this, she'll be so upset._ She smoothed an errant curl from Ruby Mae's freckled forehead. "I'll help you before school. David and I can teach you. Ruby Mae, you have a relationship with God. He'll equip you to teach just as he equips me."

"Really?" Her watery voice emboldened Christy's faith.

"Of course! We wouldn't ask if we didn't think you were able."

Ruby Mae wiped her tears with the back of her wrist and sighed. "Why, you'd think someone mortally died in the next room!" A broad smile filled her face once more.

"It's only four-thirty." Fairlight looked at the grandmother clock over Christy's shoulder, a gleam in her eye that had nothing to do with the light in the room. "I'd say you've time to tell Zady and Bessie if you hurry."

"Yes'sum!" Ruby Mae flew out of the room, and the silence was so loud it rang in their ears.

"May God forgive our selfish motives!" Fairlight's sudden exclamation sent Christy into hysterical laughter.

"Well, at least we can hear Him!"

An hour later, Fairlight pulled herself away to her family, waving at Christy over the sunset horizon. Miss Alice and David had been chatting quietly in the opposite room, their hushed voices a welcome noise compared to what transpired an hour earlier. She smiled fondly to herself and climbed the stairs to freshen up before dinner.

She stared at herself in the small vanity mirror as she brushed and recoiled her hair. Neil had called her _pretty_. A delicate shiver drifted down her spine like a spider's web in the breeze. The time she spent with him last Friday. . . she had played and replayed the memory like a favorite song on the phonograph. His strong, steady heart beating under her shaking hands rang true of the strong, steady man she had come to care for deeply.

As much as she hated to admit, he consumed her thoughts like a wildfire hotly tearing through brush. No longer did the children take up every nook and cranny of her mind's home—not even David's proposal and her ambivalence. It was filled with the crinkles around Neil's eyes when he smiled, or the way she felt secure, and yes, exhilarated in his arms.

Another topic her mind grabbed at too often, like sneaky hands in a forbidden cookie jar, was Dr. MacNeill's personal life. Was there a woman Neil thought about? Or worse, did he still think about his lovely late wife? Or did he think about her as often as she thought about him? She had seen her portrait on the mantle, set in a gold filigree oval frame. Where Christy had round cheeks and baby fat on her figure, Margaret's portrait looked matured and dignified, seductive even. It made Christy want to dye her hair and put rouge on her cheeks like Ruby Mae.

Her face flamed. She cared about him, that she knew. It was nuanced and strange and terrifying and special—all complete opposites of what she felt for David.

 _What am I to do, God?_

Moments later, each person at the table had steaming bowls of hot stew under their noses. Miss Alice's serenity calmed Christy's fried nerves. Her prayer, simple and true, held no liturgy or loftiness. It was just an informal conversation between Alice and God at the dinner table.

"Aaa- _men_! Miz Alice, your prayer stirs up ma heart like dead leaves under a broom handle! Reckon I can learn to pray like that?" Ruby Mae had returned during Christy's ablutions and tore into the chunk of meat with gusto.

"My daughter, thee has direct communication with the Father through Christ. Anything thee say is heard by Him." Miss Alice smiled fondly at Ruby Mae's genuine curiosity.

"I suppose so. It don't nearly sound as pretty as yours do."

Christy had to agree. Even her own prayers sounded frail and lackluster compared to Alice's sacred, passionate entreaties.

"It isn't about the words, it is about thy secret heart."

 _Secret heart_. . . It had been a while since Christy retreated back there. It seemed lately that the only things on her heart were superficial, fleeting nonsense. She sat pensively the rest of dinner, went through the motions of scrubbing the dishes clean, and made her way outdoors.

"Thee has been sitting out here for quite some time. Care to share with me thy troubles? We haven't seen each other as of late." Alice sat beside Christy on a matching oak spoolback rocking chair. The stars shone brilliantly amongst the darkened pine beyond them. While sitting amongst God's nature often comforted Christy, Miss Alice's presence soothed the worries in her heart. Her peace, a peace that transcends understanding and reason, always overflowed into Christy's often half-empty cup. . . something Christy yearned to tap.

"I know, and it is my fault. I've been pressed on every side and haven't had a moment's rest."

"Has thou sought rest or avoided it?" Alice smiled at the young woman beside her, slipping comfortably into her adopted vernacular. "Forgive me, Christy. I don't wish to reprimand thee. I too have been less reliant on the Spirit lately and more dependent on myself. It is an empty and unfulfilling road, isn't it?"

"I—how did you know?" Christy's eyes watered. Miss Alice's uncanny ability to read her mind intimidated her at times. . . because if she did, she'd know that Neil was at the forefront and God at the backburner.

"Perceptive people like us often grieve about our lack of focus on things that eternally matter. The writer of Hebrews tells us to lift our drooping hands and strengthen our weak knees, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed. It is hard to walk with Him when we deliberately cripple ourselves."

While Miss Alice spoke in terms of "we" and "ourselves," Christy knew she was being generous. "Miss Alice, how do I not?"

"It is simple. Allow thyself to be human and let God be God. Thou has finally stepped away from the ivory tower. Now, will thou let thyself step onto the Promise Land?"

* * *

Christy mulled over Miss Alice's words during breakfast the next morning. She had lost sleep, her guilt weighing heavily on her mind. Roping Fairlight into her manipulation with Ruby Mae. . . Thinking about Neil and David like the flip of the coin. . . At last, she succumbed to exhaustion.

She looked up from her breakfast of leftover biscuits and gravy.

"Lookin' for the preacher? He woke up early this morning and set off on Prince. I think he's gone for his social calls this mornin'." Ruby Mae voiced, once again reminding Christy how thankful she was for the endearingly nosy red-head.

Sure enough, Christy looked to the living room where David stored his ukulele case. It was missing. David took his ukulele with him during social calls, often playing it for the children and younger folks. Even before she arrived in Cutter Gap, David had already established himself as a "music man," playing ditties and hymns under his nimble fingers. He once told her that music tore down more barriers than he could have himself.

Fairlight rapped on the door before entering, her brood standing behind her with open smiles on their faces. "Hope we ain't bothering y'all. We set out early because I wanted to talk to ya, Christy."

Christy's heart dropped in her stomach. "Of course, Fairlight. Miss Alice, do you mind watching the children while we talk in the schoolhouse?"

"I'll bring them around myself when school starts."

Fairlight linked her arm around Christy's and they set up quietly to the church on the hill.

"Fairlight, I want to apologize for the Ruby Mae situation yesterday. I hate that I brought you into my cruelty."

"Cruelty? No, no. Don't worry yourself none on that. Our hearts may be in the wrong place, but I believe God will use her despite us."

"Thank you. I—I lost sleep over it. I cherish you, Fairlight. I don't want our friendship to be something hurtful to others." Christy couldn't be more thankful at Fairlight's response. . . but did she always have to be the student?

Fairlight patted Christy's hand, her whitish-blue eyes icing over in unshed tears. "I do too, Miz Christy. No, I wanted to talk about John and Bessie. John told me you saw him and Bessie down by the river a few weeks ago. I want to apologize. I taught him better—and I shorely boxed his ears about it!"

"Fairlight! Now's my chance to ease your worries. Yes, I did see them with Dr. MacNeill a couple weeks ago, and yes, I did yell at them like a harpy, but it was all harmless fun. Dr. MacNeill made sure to correct me on that."

Fairlight's eyebrows shot up. "Now just what is your relationship with him these days?"

* * *

 _Scripture:_

 _Hebrews 12:12-13_


	6. Chapter 6 - The Weight of the Mountains

**Chapter 6 - The Weight of the Mountains**

David surged through the underbrush and hummed a hymn they had sung in church last week. He enjoyed this part of ministry—house calls—more than preaching a sermon. Though he could wax nostalgic about the importance of following Jesus, most of the cove crowded out his words for their own. He couldn't help but take it personally. So he began taking his ukulele with him and let the hymns speak for themselves. He had noticed a change in his relationship with the highlanders. . . They listened and responded to him. Surely God wouldn't mind the continued worship.

Just as he saw the O'Teale's roughshod cabin perched on a slanted hill in the distance, he entered a pocket of stale air, the smell of wet wool and filth churning his stomach. A 1908 Model-T, God knows how it got there, sat rusting in the middle of the field. Various farming instruments, all in decrepit shape, were strung together by a foul looking chain, one David was sure he'd get tetanus from. Flies swarmed a sprung trap with a caught fox, his leg savagely torn in half.

"All glory to God, all glory to God," he chanted to himself, bolstering his strength to enter the cabin. Despite his good mood, entering the O'Teale cabin required extra prayers. . . It was all he could do to hold his lunch in. As he walked up the shoddy staircase on one side of the tilted cabin, his boot almost punched through a rotten board. "Swannie O'Teale? It's David! I've come to play some music for you and Wilmer."

Swannie popped her head out the lopsided door, a broad smile filling her hollowed cheeks. "Wal, how-dee Preacher! Come on in and set."

He thought it strange no child greeted him on his trek up to the house until they all climbed out of the woodwork and surrounded him, tugging on his vest and ukulele case.

"We knew youse was a-comin' for Wilmer so we all waited for ya in the cabin. Didn't wanna go far iffen ya came today." Orter Ball explained matter-of-factly.

"I'm glad you waited for me. It's good to see you and Smith, Mountie, George, Thomas, and Mary." David smiled at each of their dusty faces, touched at Orter Ball's kind words.

Wilmer, the eldest son in the clan, was a simple-minded, epileptic teenager Swannie had to spoon-feed each meal. His hands were permanently curled into balls and his right ear rested on his shoulder. The younger children often tried to fit sticks through his fists, much to Wilmer's frustration.

"Wilmer!" Swannie shook the thin curtain surrounding Wilmer's corner of the house. David could see Wilmer's big, hulking figure through the veneer. His shadow stood up and swept the curtain aside. For a brief moment, David saw his watery, cast-out eyes become clear, and Wilmer registered David's face.

"Dav-vid." Wilmer fumbled through the table and chairs before hugging David tightly. David forced himself to breathe through his mouth, as Wilmer wore the same soiled sweater since the last time he visited.

"Good to see you, Wilmer!" David yelled cheerfully into Wilmer's good ear. "I came to play some music for you." Wilmer groaned excitedly and flailed his arms, exposing his nudity under the sweater. David took his arm and sat him patiently beside his youngest brother, Thomas.

Mountie pulled out a stool for him in front of the O'Teale children and reverently handed David his ukulele case. Smith and Orter Ball fought for the one stable chair in the dingy hut, their arguments interspersed with Wilmer thrashing and groaning loudly. . . _How could anyone get any peace and quiet in this house?_ David quickly tuned his ukulele and began picking out the tune of _Summer Longings_. David's tenor slowly quieted the rowdy kids. Swannie, in her kindness, picked Mountie up and set her in her lap.

David stayed anchored on the stool for two hours, his spidery legs draped awkwardly on the bottom rung, and soon lost feeling in his tailbone. He worked in some hymns and watched the magic of the sacred words wash over their faces. . . the same faces he saw worship every Sunday. For the thousandth time, it seemed, he silently thanked God for his talent. And when he played his last two songs, _Froggie Went A-Courtin'_ and _Just a Closer Walk With Thee_ , tears formed rivulets on Mountie and Swannie's cheeks.

"All right, friends, I'm thinking that's my last song. I promised Jeb Spencer I'd stop by and play for his family tonight." David looked out the open window, the noonday sun slowly dipping to the four o'clock position. He stood up and stretched the pins and needles sensation out of his legs.

"Unh - Um-grah - A-a-ah." Wilmer pounded his chest with his fist. Drool slid down his chin and splattered across David's face. "Oo - aah!"

"I'll be back soon, Wilmer. You know I always come back." David hugged the man tightly.

"We all look forward to ya music, Preacher. You're a song-followin' man. A real talent."

David felt the tension around his shoulders lessen. . . He wore discouragement and burn-out like a coat, and his lack of relevancy like a scarf. That feeling often dissipated after an afternoon of playing. . . It was only after each of these social calls that he saw purpose in his personal ministry.

He hugged each of the children and even kissed Swannie on the cheek, his soul lighter than it had been in months.

As he walked through the O'Teale's muddy yard, he heard the children follow him.

"Where are y'all going?" He shaded his eyes from the sun as he spoke to Orter Ball.

"We's gonna follow ya to the Spencer's cabin and listen."

"Did your mother permit you?"

"We don't need no permittin'. She don't care what we do." Smith's tone held no malice - he spoke the truth. Swannie allowed the kids to do whatever they wanted.

"I suppose you can walk with me then. Mind you, it's Fairlight and Jeb's rules when we get to their house. You keep your manners."

And David didn't mind when Mountie and Thomas took both of his hands to hold.

When the small posse arrived at the Spencer's cabin, the family had been sitting on the porch, listening to Jeb's exuberant voice and dulcimer. On a wicker chair in the corner, Dr. MacNeill puffed on his pipe and eyed David thoughtfully.

It startled him to see the doctor there. It was a rare occasion to see him relaxing with another family, partaking in the daily life of an Appalachian man. He broke Neil's gaze when he opened the ukulele case.

When David began to play alongside Jeb, the doctor shifted his eyes to the O'Teale clan. Not for the first time, he wondered why all of Swannie's children looked different - besides the characteristic ringworm across their faces and necks. Not any of his business how _that_ happened. He hooded his eyes, crossed his arms, and propped back his chair on the patio railing.

Jeb's tinny dulcimer offered the melody of the songs, and David simply followed in harmony, deferring to Jeb's mastery of the music. Neil's ears were finely tuned to the mountain music, recognizing David's respectful submission to Jeb's leadership.

Meanwhile, David found himself lost in the Appalachian music, his tense shoulders slowly sagging in relaxation. Music often soothed his wound-up soul, liberating him from the stress and worries of the day. . . If only preaching a sermon did that for him.

Neil felt a small hand on his kneecap and peered out of one eye. Clara Spencer climbed into his lap and he jigged her on his knee to the beat of the music.

Hours after the sunset faded over the Smoky Mountains, the two young men silently nodded to the other and parted ways to their respective cabins. . . Their unspoken, begrudging respect growing wider than the distances of their understandings of the other.

* * *

Neil fed Charlie in his stable several mornings later, ready to go on his rounds near Crumb Hollow and Turkey Trot Creek. It was a place he checked more frequently as Lettie Coburn grew in pregnancy.

"Dr. MacNeill! Dr. MacNeill!" Swinging his leg over the saddle horn, he tapped his heels to Charlie's sides, motioning for him to get.

"Smith? Good to see you!" He changed his tone at the look on Smith's face. "What's wrong?"

"It's Wilmer! He's had one of them fits again!"

Neil pulled the young teenager up behind him without a word and kicked Charlie into a quick canter. Reaching the end of the tree line and sensing his master's urgency, Charlie deftly galloped through the level land.

"What did this fit look like?"

"He was jerkin' all around and hit his head against the wall. He was lookin' mighty pale, like a ghost!"

Neil scrubbed a hand over his stubbled face. "Did anything disrupt his routine?"

"Nuthin'—'cept the preacher visitin'. I—I'm thinkin' the preacher did sumthin' to him. . . castin' an outsider spell on 'im!"

"Don't work yourself up, boy. I'll be the one to diagnose him."

Once on the O'Teale's land, Neil held tight rein on Charlie and scanned the filthy landscape for burrows. Swannie's moaning could be heard through the trees, eerie and otherworldly, like a banshee haunting the swollen land.

Neil dropped to the ground, balanced his saddlebags across his shoulder blade, and sprinted up the rickety stairs. Not waiting for a response, he swung the front door open and his eyes alighted on Wilmer's contorted face. He knew he was dead without having to examine him.

Before his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, the sound of shattering glass met his ears. Swannie thrashed across the kitchen counter, sending a ceramic bowl to shards on the ground. The entire house, it seemed, had been destroyed by her inconsolable hysterics. Wilmer's curtains had been torn to shreds. Swannie's prized glass vase laid in ruins near Wilmer's feet. The rest of the children hid for cover behind an upturned table.

The agony of the mountains bore a heavy weight on Neil's shoulders.

"It were the preacher! He did it, mama!" Smith's voice carried strongly over his mother's wailing.

Swannie wildly lunged over the table like a rabid beast and her children screamed in terror.

Neil's frustration reached its level. "Children, go to the mission and send for Miss Alice. Miss Christy will take care of you. Understand? Now go!" He barked, galvanizing the children's lead feet.

Neil stepped into Swannie's vicinity and grappled her arms against his chest. The stench of feces and urine clung to her matted hair. "What happened this morning, Swannie?"

"Wilmer, he—he—" Swannie trembled violently. She shuddered and stilled, clarity restoring focus. "He woke up screamin' bloody murder at the light and hit the wall with the back o' his head." Her chest convulsed. "Then he had one of them thar see-shores and passed out!"

"With your help, I need to examine him. Can you do that for me, Swannie?"

She slowly nodded her head. He guided her to where Wilmer laid peacefully on the floor and she howled hysterically over his limp form. "He's dead! The preacher, he killed 'im! Killed 'im!"

Neil huffed in frustration. He wrapped his forearm under Swannie's frame and pulled her off Wilmer. Pressing her tightly against his side, he half-carried, half-dragged Swannie to the opposite side of the house. Her fingernails dug into his arm and her heel crashed into his knee.

"I canna look after your boy if you're gonna impede my examination, Swannie!" His brogue thickened breathlessly. She was working herself up to faint. Simultaneously pinning Swannie to his chest with one arm, he dug around in his saddlebag for smelling salts with the other. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth and wafted it under her nose. She stiffened under his hold and dropped to the floor in a heap.

He maneuvered them out of the house and to the fresh air. "Take deep breaths. In - out. In - out. That's it. Nice and steady. Let's sit out here and wait for Miss Alice." He held a steadying arm around her shoulders and rocked her gently.

Moments turned into an eternity. . . Swannie's guttural sobs and Neil's hatred of backwood ignorance made for bizarre silence. Prince and Miss Alice appeared an hour later, Miss Alice jumping into the fray quickly. She took Swannie into her arms and coaxed her to help find lavender, chamomile, and valerian, special herbs to ease her anxiety.

Making his way back inside, Neil finally ascertained Wilmer's state. His body, already in rigor, looked bloated and swollen. He flipped Wilmer to his side and saw odd, massive discoloration on the back of his neck. He felt the bone punctured inside the skin and pressed down the spinal cord. Neil cussed loudly, confirming his suspicions.

Neil lifted Wilmer onto his pallet and carefully covered his body with a tattered bedsheet. Gathering his medical supplies, he slipped out the door and strapped the goods on Charlie. Thankfully, Alice and Swannie were nearby. "Why don't we head to the mission, Mrs. O'Teale? We can get a nice tea brewing and see thy brood."

"I can't leave Wilmer!"

"Yes thee can. Dr. MacNeill will watch over him while thee is away. Come, come. Thy children need thee." Miss Alice helped Swannie clamber onto Prince before hoisting herself in front.

"Thank you, Alice. I'll see you shortly. Godspeed."

He watched them until they were over the horizon before he began his own journey to the mission.

* * *

 _A/N: In Catherine Marshall's novel, Wilmer is actually Swannie O'Teale's son._


	7. Chapter 7 - Operative Word

**Chapter 7 - Operative Word**

Neil dismounted inside the mission's stables, inhaling the soothing scents of horseflesh and fresh hay. Despite the peacefulness surrounding him, a bitter root sprung up in his heart, twisted and gnarled from years of hard-scrabble pain. He wished he could avoid this confrontation altogether, but what he saw on Wilmer's back was unmistakable. . . and heartbreaking. Why was he always the bearer of bad news?

He saw Christy's form through the white eyelet windows as she bent over the little ones. He had nowhere else to turn. No one else could or would take in the wretched children except her. He knew he could count on Christy—and if he were honest with himself, the mission—for anything. . . However, she was the last person he wanted to see.

As he slowly opened the creaky back door to avoid Christy, Orter Ball and Smith pounced from the kitchen table.

"It were the preacher, weren't it?" Orter Ball danced wickedly, the words dripping perversely from his lips. "He cast a spell. He cast a spell on 'im!"

"He did it, didn't he?" Their thick accents sounded rude, coarse, hurtful to him. "That no good, dirty rotten bas-"

"I told you once, I'll tell you one more time—" Neil clenched Smith's throat in his paws "—I'm the one who diagnoses him. Step out of my way!"

"Doctor MacNeill!"

Christy's eyes splintered him like a lance, her frightened gaze palpable and real. The red pounding in his brain lessened and he straightened a scared-spitless Smith.

Neil shook visibly with fury. Had these kids learned nothing? "Forgive me, boy. Ya don't know how ya words affect people. Do ya want the truth? Your brother wasn't under some spell. His neck snapped from his seizure." He flung a meaty finger in the direction of David's bunkhouse, contempt seething into rage. "Heed the gossip you spread or he's a damned man!"

Christy smoothed the boy's hair with her hand and tipped his chin up with a delicate finger. "It's fine, Smith. Don't worry, he's frightened, that's all." The calm, blasted understanding in her voice was his undoing. If he looked at her deep eyes, he knew he would lose his resolve and anger toward Swannie. Best he kept on course.

Neil pushed the boys to the side and crossed over to the broken woman. Swannie's lifeless eyes stared at the fire burning in the hearth as Alice rocked her in her arms gently. "Swannie, we need to talk."

Miss Alice rose from the settee. "Don't bother her tonight, Neil. She's in shock right now."

"You don't think I can see that?" Neil motioned to the aged mother who seemed lost in her own fantasy land. "All I need is permission to bury her son."

"Hold off on burying him for just a day. I'll take her to see him personally tomorrow."

"And how do you think you'll do that, Alice? I doubt there will be remarkable change in her demeanor tomorrow."

Alice heard the edge in his voice. First David's righteous anger and now Neil's. _Must these men be so angry, Father?_ "The Lord will take care of it, Neil. See past thy anger for what it is."

"My anger!" Neil barked a harsh laugh as he slammed the front door behind him.

Christy stepped out into the darkened patio, the kerosene light casting malevolent shadows over the log walls. Picking up her skirt, she ran down the stairs. "Neil? Neil?" Seeing the stable doors open, she picked her way through the doughy mud.

"Neil, are you here?" Charlie, Prince, and Old Theo stirred at the sound of her voice.

Neil couldn't ignore her pleas with his brooding. "Christy, I don't wanna talk."

"What Smith and Orter Ball said was wrong." She had seen it. David's crestfallen face. The older boys' menacing glares and pointed fingers. Swannie's uncontrollable sobs. David had abandoned the room for his cabin in stony silence, leaving her and Miss Alice to handle the difficult brood alone.

She covered the rest of the hay-scattered floor and stopped before the mountain man. She heard the concealed rage in his tone. If she hadn't intervened earlier, Neil would have tanned Smith O'Teale's hide. Not that Smith didn't deserve it, but Neil didn't need to play the Victorian pappy or take it out on a poor, ignorant kid. She didn't blame Neil for his anger, she just didn't want to see it affect him so deeply. This time. . . this time it was different.

"It's more than wrong, Christy." Neil looked over Charlie's withers. "I examined Wilmer."

She had met Wilmer a few times during her visits. At first, his massive frame and gargling frightened her. Swannie always had him dressed in an oversized sweater that draped to his knees, and even her virginal eyes knew nothing was hidden underneath. Once she got used to him and his ways, her heart grew in compassion. He was a grown man trapped in a feeble body, continually trying to articulate himself as best he could.

"And?" The buffer between them stretched. She couldn't stand the distance and placed herself between him and the horse.

"Wilmer had a broken back for days, Christy." He could hardly keep the emotion out of his voice, nor the image of Wilmer's shattered vertebrae out of his mind. "The discoloration around his neck was brutal. His seizure probably snapped his neck this morning and killed him."

"Oh, Neil." She placed a hand on his arm. Her grip was firm yet gentle and reminded him of his mother's embraces.

With the pad of his thumb, Neil gingerly swept the tears from her eyes. She didn't realize she was crying. "I don't see how you're not full of hate like me." He whispered.

"You don't mean that. You're angry, but you're not full of hate." Her whisper fell soft against his face and she clung to his thick forearms, balancing her unsteady feet.

He cupped her velvety cheek with his broad hand, the pools of her eyes enticing like water for a thirsty man. He felt his need for her rising from the depths of him, a need he pushed and cattle-prodded away since he first met her.

"I'm at the end of myself. I've had enough."

 _Give me strength, Lord!_ Christy inwardly cried. She was scarce for words at the self-loathing in his voice. "I've often been there. I don't have any special words to say, Neil, but that God finds us in the midst of it. He shoulders the burdens of the world with us, if only you'd let Him."

"He can barely handle the burdens of my world, let alone the burdens of everyone else."

"I believe God handles your burdens just fine. . . but can you?"

"What do you know?" He recoiled from her words, obviously hitting a nerve he had no energy to examine.

Christy brazenly placed a hand on his face, stopping him altogether. She was so incredibly close and he could only imagine her touch there in his wildest, most secretive dreams.

"I know enough to see the weight you carry. Your eyes. . . they are so tired. They have seen so much. Don't retreat in yourself, Neil. Hurt people need one another."

 _I need you, Christy! I don't need your god._ The words stuck to the roof of his mouth like a bur on cotton flannels. He was a coward in more ways than one.

The silence punctuated everything unsaid. He withdrew from her touch and mounted Charlie.

"Give Swannie some of this twice a day in small doses," he pressed a tincture of laudanum in her hand. "I'll see you Sunday to review the science lesson."

Christy wrapped her arms around herself as she watched the doctor ride away. "Lord," she prayed aloud so even the horses could hear, "make him see You. Give him no choice."

* * *

David stared at the dim ceiling, the night stretching deep into eternity's morning. "Father—" It was the only thing he could say. _Help me. Protect me. Guide me._ An abiding sorrow swirled in his stomach, like blood mingling with bile. How could he show his face? Did he really have something to do with Wilmer's death? _No, no, no!_

"David? I need to speak with thee." Miss Alice's firm knock and vernacular aggravated his wound.

He rolled over onto his shoulder to look at the clock. Was it really six o'clock? "I'm not fit for company right now."

"I'd say thee are in a desperate need for said company."

David knew Alice would keep vigil at his door. May as well hear her out. Once he cracked open the door, the bold woman blasted through like a battering ram.

"Drink this. It will make thee feel better." She pressed her index finger onto his shoulder, causing him to sit on his lumpy couch. Sure enough, the hot cocoa thawed just a bit of his frozen heart.

"Alice, I cannot preach this Sunday." Defeat lingered in his tone and he hated himself all the more. "You heard what those children said. They think I intentionally hurt Wilmer!"

"Operative word, my dear: children. Take no stock in their cruel words. For that is all that it is—words."

"But Miss Alice—"

Alice knelt in front of David's feet and laid a hand on his face like his mother did when he was a child. "Did thee harm Wilmer?" David shook his head. "Did thee harm those children?" No. "Or did thee minister to them?" He smiled wearily, a tear at the cusp of falling.

"There is nothing to fear, then. Thou hast done nothing wrong but minister. We will be offensive to this world. . . That is something remarkably exciting: our spirituality will frighten some folks. No, not because we are frightening, but that the Spirit inside convicts. This will run its course. The real question is, will thee run too?"

David had no answer to respond.

"Take a Sabbath rest today. Spend time with Him. He's in control, not thee."

 _He is in control. He is in control._ David covered his face and wept.

And while He was in control, Alice and Christy managed to caravan the O'Teale clan back to their cabin, clean up the mess with love and care, and pray over the family before disembarking. When Neil returned later in the day with some help for Wilmer's burial, he was surprised at the orderly home and the new quilt lovingly laid out on Wilmer's old bed.


	8. Chapter 8 - Come Unto Me

**Chapter 8 - Come Unto Me**

Cutter Gap's cemetery was a quarter mile trek behind the Persimmon Hill. Most of the Cove, especially the women and children, circumvented the area if they walked to mission or the schoolhouse. To the men, however, it was a perfect place to gamble and drink moonshine. In Neil's younger days, he'd spent a late evening or two out with the older men, drinking and swapping tall tales about fistfights, women, and Scottish folklore.

Neil sidestepped around an empty pewter jug and surveyed the O'Teale's plot on the burial grounds. Far from the rest of the cemetery, the O'Teale's carried their notoriety to their grave. He wasn't a superstitious man, but the mist of the early morning and the clanking of Jeb's shovel against the earth conjured shadows, ghouls, and old memories best left forgotten.

"Good morning, Grantland and Jeb. I see you've gotten to work early."

David leaned against his shovel and caught his breath. "We wanted to get an early head start. It took us six hours to dig Polly Teague's and I still need to finish Wilmer's eulogy."

"I won't stop you then."

As the men resumed digging, Neil examined the preacher's posture. His wiry frame only emphasized his gaunt face and red-rimmed, humorless eyes. If Neil was a betting man, he'd bet anxiety and sleepless nights wore out David. _Best leave that for Alice_ , he decided. He'd only injure the young man's pride if he made comment.

Neil parried easy banter with Jeb, asking about his honey bees and LuLu's recovery and Fairlight's reading lessons with Christy.

Neil knew most of the Cove would attend Wilmer's funeral sheerly for the novelty. Not many of them knew him personally due to his tetched nature, but primarily because he was an O'Teale. He suspected that beside his routine check-ups, David visited Wilmer the most.

The sun rose through the tops of the spruces and sifted out the morning dew as the men finished their work. A cardinal song chirped through their silent, backbreaking work.

Jeb reached to wipe the sweat off his brow, replacing it with dirt from his work gloves. "I reckon it'll work, seein' as we pert near can't get outta here."

Neil dusted his hands on his trousers and drank the last drop from his canteen. David hoisted himself out and they both took Jeb's hands to help him out of the hole.

"Would y'all care to join me at the mission for some lunch as payment for all your hard work? I know the women have fixed some perpetual soup from last week."

"I'll take it, no matter who made it!" Neil heartily commented, irking David all the more.

Later, David watched the cheerful bunch through the steam of his soup, jealousy and anxiety boiling inside him. Neil had pulled Christy aside almost immediately and in one word, the morose face she had worn like a hood fell from her countenance. David assumed she was upset for the predicament he was in. As odds had it, he was wrong.

And now, here she was, face dazzling brilliantly as she beamed at the doctor. David's anxiety grew deeper, wider, and more sinister than the chasm he dug earlier. Black thoughts ravaged his mind, casting dark shadows on the light of the Gospel. He was pathetic.

David excused himself to his bunkhouse to finish Wilmer's eulogy. Truth be told, he'd struggled to write it. He loved playing his ukulele for Wilmer. He loved the O'Teale family. Why couldn't he shake this depression?

He heard a knock on the door. "David? I'd like to speak with thee for a moment."

David got up from his desk and opened the door for the stout, older woman.

"What is eating you? I saw you barely touched your soup, and I know you love my yeast rolls!" Alice tried to put the preacher at ease, adopting her less formal vernacular and poked him in the ribs with her elbow.

"I don't have much of an appetite today, I'm afraid."

She sensed a dark, malevolent source around him. This was the work of the enemy seeking to steal, kill, and destroy the young man's faith.

Alice eased her buxom frame onto the narrow settee next to David. Moments ticked by on David's watch. Silence filled the room but on the inside, Alice vocalized loud petitions to the Lord. Prayers for David to let down his guard. Prayers for wisdom on what to say. . .

"Would the O'Teale boys cast more blame on me?" David began. "Would the Cove believe them that I killed Wilmer or listen to reason? They already don't like me. I've preached against moonshine, fighting, premarital sex. . . I've gotten into countless arguments with Ault Allen and Ozias Holt. . . Even the times I enjoy being out here, playing my ukulele for them, they turn their back on me. . ."

"And you believe this?"

"I genuinely do, Alice. And I can't see a way around it."

She so desperately wanted to fix him, to heave the heavy burden off of his shoulders and onto hers. Yet she knew what Jesus had told His disciples, and what she needed to tell him.

"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."

"I've _tried_ , Alice! Can't you see? What is God going to do with this? My ministry is effectively finished here. I can't do one thing for the Cove without someone criticizing my work or my integrity. I'm exhausted!"

On and on David ranted and bemoaned his status in the Cove. His voice was tinged with a deep bitterness, full of toxic, raw words that Alice struggled to comprehend. Alice patted him on the back, smoothed away the hair from his brow, and got him a glass of water as he continued.

"Entering seminary wasn't entirely my choice. . . my sister and mother made that decision for me. Mother's always been determined that one of her sons would be a preacher, go to seminary, lead my old congregation. My older brothers were in sales, you see. I had no choice, I was steamrolled by my mother and sister. . . That's not a good enough reason to be here. . . And now my mother, my own mother, thinks I'm totally incapable of serving mountain folk. Here, let me read you a letter, it only arrived yesterday—"

Alice's nurturing heart broke for him. He had no idea where he belonged, who he was, and what the Lord was calling him to be.

"David. Jesus is a man of His word. He will not leave thee here in this desolate place of thy soul. I quoted the Gospel of Matthew because Jesus says something we look over time and time again: 'Come unto me.' He's with thee right now. Won't thee join Him?"

David's mouth tightened into a thin line. She didn't understand. She couldn't understand. . .

"Alice, I've got to finish my eulogy. Maybe we can talk when I'm in a better frame of mind."

"Alright, child. . . Just one last thing. Thou art loved. And when thou art ready for that Love, let Him in." As Alice slowly closed the door behind her, David put his head in his hands and cried.

* * *

Most of the Cove emerged from the thicket to pay a proper goodbye to the eldest O'Teale son. Smith, Orter Ball, Mountie, and the other children huddled around their mother like silent little geese. Alice and Christy had lent Swanny a faded black mourning dress with ecru lace. . . It was the cleanest he'd ever seen the family, and the irony was not lost on David.

The mountain folk had come in full plumage, expecting a show. It was a bizarre assortment of old-fashioned dresses, mismatched coats and patched-up trousers, faded bonnets and holey shoes. The men sat on workbenches, the women sat on cane-bottomed chairs, and the children sat on upturned pails. Already, they were working themselves up into a frenzy, crying into soiled handkerchiefs or their shirtsleeves.

David's hands shook as he fingered through the thin pages of his Bible. His usual calm tenor rang hollow and rough across the cemetery. Feeling choked for words, he cleared his throat. No words came. He tried again, this time a little more firmly. It worked. He hesitantly read his half-written eulogy for Wilmer. . . and then delivered an exhortation for sinners to frighten them out of sin as expected of every mountain parson.

Once he was finished, he stood off to the side and the real ceremony began. For two hours, the mountain folk shared prolonged, even made-up, stories of their love for Wilmer. As time passed, the wilder and more pronounced their demonstration of grief became for his death. Orter Ball O'Teale loomed before Wilmer's open casket and read a short passage in Ecclesiastes, which he had to have practiced with Christy before. Swannie's guttural cries carried across the cemetery as if on the wings of a raven. All the women were moved by her bereavement and hysterically sobbed with her.

David stared at Wilmer's open casket, his face placid and eyes closed. Spiraling down, down, down into his thoughts, he panicked as if stuck in the abyss with no way out. _When will they blame me? When will they say I'm cursed? God, I need You! Help me!_

Smith O'Teale took a step in front of Wilmer's coffin. "My favorite memory of Wilmer was right before he died." David's head snapped in Smith's direction. "The preacher had come to play his uku-lele and sing a few songs for us. Wilmer loved 'Froggie Went A-Courtin' and so the preacher sang it for 'im specifically. Wilmer was just clappin' and havin' a grand ole time. He shorely enjoyed it. I'm obleeged to ye, Preacher. And forgive me for sayin' all those hurtful words the other night. I was just sad."

David nodded, completely at a loss for words. He had assumed wrong and made it about him in the process. God had delivered him from the pit.

The doctor whispered impatiently in Hattie McCabe's ear, needing a break to smoke his pipe in peace. "Maybe ye should lead us in a song or two, Hattie."

And much like the cardinal song earlier in the day, Hattie led them through "The Old Rugged Cross" and "Amazing Grace."

Alice handed David a starched handkerchief. "I believe thee needs this."

 _"Was Grace that taught my heart to fear_

 _And Grace, my fears relieved_

 _How precious did that Grace appear_

 _The hour I first believed"_

* * *

 _Scripture:_

 _Matthew 11:28-30 (KJV)_

 _Again, taking my time writing this. I want to finish this story, it's just going to be in my own time. Apologies in advance. Please review this chapter for me, I'd love to hear your thoughts._


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